


Home to Me - Chapter 10, extended E-rated version

by jtph



Series: Home to Me [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8077687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jtph/pseuds/jtph
Summary: This is the explicit version of the final chapter of Home to Me, in which Hawke and Fenris finally get back together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> And here it is! My first attempt at smut. OH MY GOD how do people do this? Especially M/M - the endless pronoun confusion XD.  
> As always, criticism is very welcome!

A week later, Fenris walks back through Lowtown. Ciaran’s boat has left without incident, taking the Seeker back towards Ferelden. It is strange to think it of someone who nearly killed him, but Fenris is sorry to see the man go.

He is not, however, sorry to leave the Docks once more. It’s never been Fenris’ favourite place, with its reek of rotting fish and floating garbage, but he dislikes it more than ever now: he’ll probably never be able to retrace those steps without remembering being led there by Danarius, already collared and chained, still dazed from the shock of Hawke’s betrayal.

Except Hawke didn’t betray him. He’s heard all the tale now, of course; Varric would hardly let it remain otherwise. Hawke waking in the nick of time in the forest, beating off a band of murderous thugs, making his way back home only to find it claimed by a demon wearing his own face. Killing it, and nearly dying in the process. Commandeering a ship, chasing down Danarius, barely escaping death again. It all sounds like a fanciful adventure story – which was so much more like Hawke than the role of traitor that Fenris had no trouble believing it was all true, even right from the beginning. And using Fenris’ greatest ally against him – well, that sounded all too much like Danarius as well.

Fenris stops outside the Hanged Man, squinting up at the second floor. Hawke will be there, he knows. Bodahn had already arranged repairs to the Estate by the time they returned – but enough panels and tiles and furniture needed replacing that the house wasn’t really yet habitable. Aveline and Donnic had been out of room, but Varric had been more than happy to put Hawke up in his favourite tavern. Fenris suspects the dwarf is more worried than he makes out about his best friend’s recent habit of almost dying, and doesn’t mind keeping him a bit closer at hand for a time.

Honestly, a big part of Fenris wants to do the same. It had been hard initially to see Hawke, until he processed everything that had happened. They hadn’t spoken much on the ship. And it obviously hurt Hawke to be kept at arm’s length, but it hurt Fenris to be near him and remember that expression of impatient disdain… knowing that he had never truly seen it on Hawke’s face had made it no easier to banish the image from his mind. And when the uneasiness did start to fade, mollified by Hawke’s easy regard and obvious relief at seeing him safe, he felt ashamed of having heaped more distress onto the man after everything he had been through. Fenris felt unworthy, and vulnerable, and fiercely protective. He felt _too much_ again, as always around Hawke.

Fenris grits his teeth, frustrated with himself. No. Enough. What he really feels, most of all? Has never changed, not once. Even when he thought Hawke had betrayed him, it couldn’t blot out what Fenris felt – feels. And it is time to be brave.

He goes into the Hanged Man, weaving through the noisy late-afternoon crowd, and makes his way up the stairs. Hawke has taken a smaller room, beside Varric’s suite; the door stands slightly ajar, and Fenris peers in through it.

Hawke is lying on the bed on his stomach, one arm folded beneath his head, his face turned away. He is wearing only his breeches, and Fenris takes in the hard planes of his back, the light skin marked with the occasional pale scar. Hawke’s body is perfect; slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, lithe and densely muscular. A wave of _want_ hits Fenris and any misgivings he had are instantly forgotten. He opens the door and slips through, closing it behind him.

 

Hawke has been tired ever since returning, and has been spending a lot of his time holed up at the Hanged Man dozing. At the moment, though, he’s not really asleep – he’s thinking about Fenris, remembering that one time, years ago, when Fenris was his. The arch of Fenris’ back, the feel of his hips beneath Hawke’s hands, his open mouth panting hot breath against Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke is half-hard, pressed against the mattress below him. He is just thinking about flipping over so he can take care of it when he hears the low murmur of Fenris’ voice near his ear – “Are you awake?” – and feels Fenris’ weight settle on the side of the bed, his leg against Hawke’s.

Hawke lies perfectly still for a moment, trying to decide if he has actually fallen asleep. “Fenris, are you on my bed, or am I dreaming?”

There’s a throaty chuckle, slightly hesitant. “I am here.”

Hawke turns his head. Fenris is watching Hawke with a thoughtful expression. His gauntlets lie on the low chest near the door, and the lyrium etched on his flesh is even more confronting without them; both sides of his hands are marked, the white lines like tracings of the bones beneath drawn on his skin. “Is everything all right?” Hawke asks, worried at once. Fenris has been, not exactly avoiding him, but at least avoiding being alone with him.

“We need to talk, properly,” Fenris begins slowly. “It is not only what happened with Danarius. It has been… different between us for much longer.” He picks at a speck of lint on the blanket, quiet for a few breaths. At length he says: “We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago.”

Hawke inhales slowly, thinking fast. There are so many ways this conversation could end badly. “You didn’t want to talk about it,” he says carefully.

Fenris sighs, bending to rest his elbows on his knees. “I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me – I deserved no less.” He frowns at the floorboards as he speaks. “But it isn’t better. That night…” his expression changes as he glances back at Hawke, becoming intent; there is regret in it, and _longing_ , and Hawke’s chest suddenly feels tight. “I remember your touch as if it were yesterday,” Fenris admits.

He pushes off the bed to standing, and Hawke fights the urge to grab him and pull him back. “I should have asked your forgiveness long ago,” Fenris says firmly, turning to look Hawke in the eye. “I hope you can forgive me now.”

Hawke sits up carefully; his back is still not completely cooperating. “I understand,” he says simply. Uncertainly flickers across Fenris’ face, and Hawke gives a tiny shrug. “I always understood.”

Fenris is still for a moment, not looking completely convinced that he could be understanding correctly. Then he steps closer, taking Hawke’s hand. “If there is a future to be had,” he says, voice low and soft, “I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

Hawke surges to his feet, heedless of his body’s protest – Fenris’ hand goes to the back of Hawke’s head, pulling him down into a desperate kiss; Hawke drags in breath through his nose as his hands wrap around Fenris’ back, crushing the elf to him as Fenris’ lips part under his. The edge of Fenris’ steel breastplate jabs into him, but Hawke is too preoccupied with Fenris’ mouth and the warm, firm body beneath his hands to even notice.

Fenris tilts his head, his tongue finding Hawke’s as a little hummed noise of pleasure escapes him. The sound sinks straight through Hawke’s body to his groin; he is already hard again. Fenris’ thigh presses between Hawke’s legs, shifting as he adjusts his weight to mould himself into their kiss; one hand trails around Hawke’s lower back and hip and starts to slide downwards.

Hawke breaks away, shaking his head, and the elf’s hand freezes in place. Fenris stares at him, lips still parted, his colour high. Hawke struggles for the right words: “Are you – I don’t want to… last time it…” He grunts in frustration and drags his other hand back through his hair. “We don’t have to do more than you want to,” he tries, and then finds once he’s started he can’t stop: “We don’t have to rush things. I… love you, and I have for a long time and I want you so bloody much, but you said it hurt you, last time. I don’t _want_ to hurt you, and I get the sense there’s no real way… not to.” Hawke shakes his head at his own idiocy and places his hands gently on Fenris’ shoulders, rubbing small circles with his thumbs against the unmarked flesh on Fenris’ clavicles.  
Fenris lets out a shuddering breath, as though he’s been holding it. “Say it again.”

Hawke frowns, confused. “That I don’t want to hurt you?”

“No… the… the other part.”

“Ah.” Hawke lifts his hands further, linking them gently behind Fenris’ neck. His voice is soft and serious: “I love you.”

“I… love you, as well,” Fenris murmurs, as his flush deepens even more. He clears his throat, lifting his head. “And you’re right that the markings will probably hurt. But trust me, Hawke, I want this just as much as you do.” He lowers his eyes, frowning slightly. “Actually, I have… similar concerns.”

Hawke raises his eyebrows.

“Your back. And those wounds.” Fenris reaches out to lay his hand carefully over the side of Hawke’s stomach. The gouges are still healing, still too slowly for Hawke’s liking; they were aggravated by the battle on the ship and have only just stopped oozing again. His spine is still tender, too, and likes to send shocks of sharp, buzzing pain through him when he moves the wrong way.

None of which is anything like enough to put him off, not when he’s finally being offered what he’s craved for three years.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Hawke declares, bending down for another kiss. It is gentler this time, at first, but the heat of it builds rapidly. Hawke traces the curve of Fenris’ earlobe with his lips as his fingers find the catches on the elf’s armour. “Maybe you’ll just have to take care of me, this time,” he suggests softly. Fenris hisses in a breath, his hips jerking forward to press against Hawke, and… no, he was not kidding about wanting this; tight black leather makes it difficult to miss. Hawke resists the urge to slide his hands down over Fenris’ muscular stomach; friction over the markings seems to be what causes the pain. Instead he drops his hand straight to Fenris’ cock, squeezing it through the leather; Fenris groans into Hawke’s neck, letting his teeth press into the sensitive flesh there.

“You are overdressed,” Hawke accuses.

Fenris laughs under his breath, his thumbs tucking under the top of Hawke’s waistband. “As are you.” He pulls away a little, wrestling off his breastplate and pauldrons, as Hawke undoes Fenris’ belt and sets to work on the clasps of the black tunic. Hawke bends his head to press his mouth to Fenris’ warm skin, in the spaces between the lyrium lines, revelling in the scent of him: leather, metal, the ozone tang of lyrium, all overlaid with clove and olive from his hair. Fenris shrugs off the tunic completely, and Hawke draws back just a little to admire him: deceptively slender, hard with compact muscle, his skin a medium tan that only accentuates the markings further. And even they are beautiful, trailing along his flesh like roots, like an organic part of him. “Maker, Fenris, I’d forgotten just how perfect you are,” Hawke says, crowding into Fenris and backing him up against the wall beside the bed; Hawke drops to his knees, biting back a grunt of discomfort as his back protests. Fenris lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud as Hawke undoes the lacings of the elf’s leggings and draws out his cock, gently stroking his hand along it. It is barely smaller than Hawke’s, dark and slightly curved, the tip already slick with precum. Hawke looks up at Fenris, who is watching him, eyes glazed-over with arousal; Hawke runs his tongue slowly and deliberately up the underside, drawing another tight groan of pleasure from the elf. Hawke reaches down to adjust himself, uncomfortably hard now, as his tongue laves against the head; then he opens his mouth and slides down fully onto Fenris’ cock in one movement, until it is pressing against the back of his throat. The elf grabs twin handfuls of Hawke’s dark hair, pulling involuntarily as he gasps for air. “Hawke,” he whispers shakily. “Ahh…” Hawke groans around Fenris' length, stroking himself through his breeches; listening to Fenris is almost better than being on the receiving end. Hawke pulls back, sucking gently, his tongue swiping across the underside of the head, then sinks down again; as he builds up a steady rhythm, he revels in every gasp and moan and breathy repetition of his name.

Suddenly Fenris’ hands clutch onto Hawke’s shoulders, pushing at him. “If you don't stop... ah!" He grits his teeth, fighting for control. "I’m not going to last much longer.” Hawke reluctantly pulls back, giving Fenris’ cock one final hard suck. “You are impossible,” Fenris says accusingly.

“You love it.” Hawke grins.

“I do.” Fenris jerks his head towards the bed, a question in his eyes.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Hawke glances around the room first, and finds what he’s looking for on top of the armoire. “Almond oil,” he explains at Fenris’ quirked brow. “Anders suggested a massage might help my back…”

“That mage would find any excuse to get his hands on you,” Fenris growls, pulling Hawke firmly against him as soon as he’s back in reach.

Hawke lets out a slightly startled laugh. “No, not from him… I was going to arrange someone – but now I can think of a better use for it.”

Fenris licks a stripe up the side of Hawke’s neck, sliding his hands down the back of the taller man’s breeches. “You are still overdressed.”

Hawke wriggles out of them obediently, sitting down on the edge of the bed to kick them off – Fenris follows him down, kneeling between his legs; one hand rakes hungrily over Hawke’s ass and thighs and the other wraps around the solid length of Hawke’s cock. “Do you want me to return the favour?” he asks in that seductively low voice of his.

Hawke shakes his head, breathing faster as Fenris begins to stroke him. “I want you to fuck me.”

Fenris gives a little shiver of desire. “If you're sure,” he agrees softly. “Though It’s been a very long time, since I've...”

“I am completely and utterly sure,” Hawke says emphatically. “I’ve been fantasising about that for _years_ so its definitely a… yesss…” the word finishes on a hiss as Fenris’ quickens the pace of his hand on Hawke's cock.

“On your front or back?” Fenris asks.

Hawke reluctantly pulls away from Fenris, sliding back onto the bed. He turns and settles himself onto his hands and knees, reaching up to grab the pillow as he does.Fenris climbs up onto the bed behind him, his hands stroking down Hawke's thighs. Hawke reaches back, holding the little bottle out to Fenris, who takes it. There is the slick-wet sound of oil rubbed on skin, and the almond scent fills the room; Fenris’ hand reaches underneath to grasp Hawke’s length again, now slippery with oil. Hawke moans as Fenris’ hands slips all the way up to the tip and rolls around it, and he can't help but thrust into Fenris’ grip.

More oil pours down the cleft of Hawke’s ass before Fenris places the bottle aside. Then, still stroking Hawke's cock with one hand, he slides the other hand firmly down from Hawke’s lower back, fingers just curving in around the inside of Hawke’s buttock to trace the slippery trail of oil all the way down. As Fenris’ fingertips brush close to Hawke’s entrance, Hawke pants out a little breath, twisting to press closer. Fenris’ hand drifts back up along the cleft, and this time his fingers brush back and forth directly over the sensitive opening there, sending pleasure thrumming through Hawke’s body. With Fenris stroking his cock and rubbing little circles around his ass, Hawke very soon finds himself the one stammering out: “w-wait, I’m getting close…”

Fenris takes his hands away, and Hawke hears him stroke the oil on his hand over himself. Then the blunt head of Fenris’ cock retraces the path of his fingers, rubbing against Hawke’s opening. Hawke pushes back against him, impatient with arousal, and Fenris begins to press insistently in. Hawke’s mouth falls open in a silent gasp at the overwhelming sensation, on the edge of both pleasure and pain, as Fenris’ finally enters him. Fenris moves in with tiny thrusts, carefully, sinking fractionally deeper ever time, his hands caressing Hawke’s hips. Hawke lets out a shuddering groan, dropping his face down into the pillow in front of him and reaching underneath himself to stroke his own cock. Fenris hand shifts, and he rubs one finger around Hawke’s stretched entrance, over where he is pushing relentlessly deeper.

It is so intense, Hawke's senses not sure at first if he is being pleasured or impaled, but as Hawke’s arousal builds again and his muscles relax around the intrusion, the discomfort fades and all that is left is the surge of pleasure every time Fenris moves. Finally Fenris gives one last snap of his hips and he is fully inside; he moans, a low, breathy, gravelly sound, and it feels like it runs straight up through Hawke’s own body.

That tips something in Hawke, who eases forward and then pushes back hard, driving Fenris back inside; they both grunt in unison. “You are so tight,” Fenris mumbles, his voice thick. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Hawke manages. "Maker, Fenris, it's so good..."

And then Fenris begins to move in earnest, short sharp strokes, sliding back and forth through the tight band of muscle. Hawke pants out every breath, eyes squeezed closed, his hand moving restlessly as he strokes himself. Fenris’ pace is increasing, his breathing also becoming more ragged as he lengthens his thrusts. An ache is building in Hawke’s balls and the base of his cock; he’s getting close. He drops his hand away from himself, trying not to finish.  
Just as he thinks it, Fenris bites out. “I can’t hold off much longer…” He bends forward, his hand reaching around to grasp Hawke’s length again, his movements fast and insistent; the position tilts Fenris’ cock inside Hawke, pressing harder against the sensitive front wall. “Aah!” Hawke cries out, and comes, striping the bed with his seed.

Fenris breath catches and he thrusts full length into Hawke’s ass once, twice, and follows Hawke over the edge, shuddering.

For a moment they just catch their breath, Fenris still buried inside Hawke. Then Hawke laughs softly, still a little overwhelmed. “Well,” he says.

“Well?” Fenris ventures.

“That was... rather amazing.” Hawke pulls forward slowly, wincing as Fenris slides free. Hawke stands, a little shaky, and moves across to the sideboard where the bowl of water and towel from this morning is still sitting there. He dampens the towel and wipes himself off gingerly, then folds it in half and takes it back to the bed to clean Fenris off as well. Fenris is sitting down on the edge of the bed, looking as dazed as Hawke feels. Hawke tosses the towel back at the bowl from across the room; it lands in the water, splashing the wall with droplets.

“Remind me again, Hawke, why I spent three years avoiding doing this?” Fenris says slowly.

“You’re clearly crazy.” Hawke sits beside him, wrapping his arm around Fenris’ slender waist and kissing the side of his head. “It’s a good thing I’m not turned off by crazy.”

 

Three months later, Hawke trudges along the side of the Wycome Highway. The sky overhead is mottled grey and threatening rain, and he pulls up the hood of his cloak more firmly.

Everything in Kirkwall had gone sour again pretty rapidly after the triumph of Danarius’ defeat – soon Hawke had been up to his ears in the tensions between mages and templars, being forced to act as mediator where the Grand Cleric would not. Anders had quickly returned to his usual obsessions, and in the end…

Hawke shakes his head, sighing, seeing again in his mind’s eye the unnatural beams of red light splitting out through the Chantry walls before the whole thing detonated apart.

He didn’t have the heart to kill the mage; even if he had wanted to, he owed Anders too much. The mage had committed a desperate and terrible act, but Hawke would not – could not – be his executioner. Fenris himself hadn’t quite understood, but he had accepted Hawke’s decision. He had stood with the mages, and with Hawke, against his every instinct.

Hawke glances behind him to see a dark-cloaked figure striding up the road.

Hawke smiles. “Fenris,” he calls softly. As the elf approaches, Hawke snatches him in to a tight embrace, taking care not to snag himself on the sharp edge of Fenris’ greatsword.

“What’s wrong?” Fenris asks, his voice slightly muffled by Hawke’s shoulder.

“Just – glad to have you with me.” Hawke flexing his arms, squeezing the elf even tighter, and Fenris grunts in protest. Hawke releases him and steps back, scanning the area around the road. “Did you find anything?”

“No signs of Exalted Marches,” Fenris says dryly. “No chantry presence at all, I can see. There’s a Dalish clan in the area though, I found aravel tracks. We’ll have to tread carefully.”

Hawke looks up at the sky. “We should probably look for some cover,” he suggests. “The sun won’t be up much longer anyway.”

They have scarcely gone a hundred yards beyond the road when a Dalish elf steps out from the trees nearby. He is slight, and looks no older than twenty, with red hair braided down one side and sharp grey eyes. There is a bow strapped to his back, but he makes no move to draw it.

“Andaran atish’an, strangers,” he says, bowing slightly. His accent is different from the Dalish of the Sabrae clan, closer to that of Kirkwall humans. “I apologise for waylaying you – but my clan is camped nearby, and I must make sure you wish no harm to them.”

“We do not,” Fenris says slowly, his hand hovering at his shoulder beside the hilt of his greatsword.

Hawke tilts his head, surveying the red-haired elf. “You seem unusually… congenial, for a Dalish elf,” Hawke observes.

“I am Clan Lavellan. Our Keeper sees little use for the hostility to outsiders most expect of us. We often travel to Wycome to trade.”

Hawke nods. “Your Keeper sounds wise.”

The red-haired elf nods. “She is.” He blinks at Hawke, a faintly puzzled expression crossing his face.

“We will be going, then. We have no wish to intrude,” Fenris says, nodding to the other elf shortly and turning back towards the road.

Hawke smiles and gives a brief wave to the Lavellan elf, who still looks a little disquieted but manages a small smile and another bow. “Dareth shiral,” the elf says softly, as Hawke turns to follow Fenris. “Somehow, I feel we may meet again.”

When Hawke looks back, he is already gone. Hawke pauses for a moment, frowning at the spot where the Dalish had stood, then he shrugs.

He walks on, jogging to catch up with Fenris.


End file.
